To
the few who see their childhood dreamsrealized, anything is
possible,a grain of sand in a bucketful,or a beachful,
and their commercialspromise us that we, too, can parkour
Jeep atop the sheer monument.

Now
we who have had our share ofaccidents know the risk of
wordsthat are given rein to wanderover whatever
countryside,the hairpin sleights and spins, and guesswhat
product is being sold here.

How
easily the only bullin the herd swats flies,
geneticallygroomed to be the envy of thoseout of fortune,
not far beyond,whose only comfort is the mockmounting
among other mock heirs.

The
bucketful knows what the chosengrain can’t know about
randomness,living in two worlds, the promisedisle, if
forever out of reach, ever in the mind, knowing the
smallchance of even this horizon.

We
don’t doubt the motive, but wondersometimes whose words
we hear, as ifdeed could balance with desireand bluster
convince us to chargeour glory, as if by some slightvariance
we could make it true.

Flagman

So
you think it’s easystanding with a slow/stop signon
one side of the curve,some look-alike you don’t even
knowabout skirts that ride upunder seat belts on the
other.

Oh,
it’s easy when you’re fifteensweating in ten
acres of dry hayor working in your old man’s
warehouse,but when you’re a man and been onestill
wearing a red-jacket halterthat was made to fit no one,you
stop and consider.

I
haven’t even mentioned the boredomor the lack of
respect from anyonecurious enough to meet your eyeor the
embarrassment when you maybe meetsome lady in a bar after
work,jawing to her where your living’s at:Well, I’m
a highway engineer, Ma’am.

If
you think this ain’t the way I think,come on down try
her once and see.I know there’s danger and we save
livesand it’s work that’s got to be done,but
I’ve got more sense than that—you think I don’t,
say it to my face,you highfalutin son of a bitch.

Academic
Discourse

It’s
as if I, as everybodyelse, know nothing, metaphors asclean
and barbless as plains of snow,

marveling
at originalityin a few masters, theme sustainedfor a
thousand lines or pages,

and
every subordinate or wordcontributing (who looking ata
mountain sees a rock misaligned?).

Guessing
and naïve we go to schooland teach more guessing, not
soundingthe depths ourselves, not camped in a hut

on
the brink where one mistake notonly sullies our lives but
smearsthe canvas and slanders elegance.

Will
opinion be forevermodern? Tribal leaders forgettingthe
savage in their best warriors,

bare
and muscular, minding pathsand spoor, untamed by the
dailybusiness, sleeping with their spear.

Trent
Buschis
a native of rural West Virginia who now lives in Georgia where he
makes furniture. His poems have appeared in
many journals including Best American Poetry 2001, Poetry,
HudsonReview, Southern Review, GeorgiaReview,
Threepenny Review, Shenandoah, The Nation, American Scholar, and
more recently in Notre Dame Review, The EvansvilleReview,
Agni Online,Rattle, and BostonReview.